


It Takes Guts to Be Gentle and Kind

by raedbard



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-20
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not like they stopped talking to each other, not really, not for more than a couple of months, not long enough to break down into dust six years worth of brotherhood."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes Guts to Be Gentle and Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle V, to the prompt 'betrayal'. The title is a quote from the Smiths' song 'I Know It's Over': _It's so easy to laugh, it's so easy to hate, it takes guts to be gentle and kind._

It's not like they stopped talking to each other, not really, not for more than a couple of months, not long enough to break down into dust six years worth of brotherhood. But when Josh dreams about him all that ever appears in his head, waking him only ever after it is too late with reproach sounding in his ears and regret pounding heavily in his heart, are the blows they mistook for their last conversation before everything changed, and Toby's face covered in anger, and Toby's face hidden in grief he did not want to show Josh, and the whiteness of his fingers clutching at a letter he never wanted, thinking he'll go to hell before he'll cry in front of _you_.

All Josh really wanted to say was: _I'm glad you're not going to jail_.

He wanted to make it a joke, twist the broken place in his own heart around glib, shallow words as he usually would, mention that President Santos is thinking of creating a consultant's position for well-qualified almost-felons and would Toby like to make an appointment, have a try at making himself feel better and Toby's discomfort be damned.

But he can't, or won't. It doesn't make much difference which. It would have been harder not to if the others had been there, but Sam was still in-flight and Donna said she thought it was important he went by himself and CJ said she'd already made that particular call thank you very much and suddenly there were no more people there to make it easier or harder, no more people standing between them.

Josh holds out his hand. Toby just stares at it, raising his eyes after a long ten seconds to stare into Josh's instead, like every alpha male invaded; like a tired man, past his usefulness but not past his pride.

Josh shakes his head, retracts his hand and shoves it in his pockets.

"For cryin' out loud, Toby," he says, softly.

"What exactly were you expecting, Josh?"

"We _used_ to be friends, man. I thought we were ... you know, getting over the thing."

"Call it a relapse," he says, brushing his hand down the centre of his chest like he used to, before he stopped being the man Josh almost understood. "Is this visit an attempt at rehab?"

"Just a friendly call," Josh says, raising his hands, palms outwards. "Just coming to say hi."

"And well done for not getting sent to the big house?"

"Yes. In a manner of speaking."

"How's your President?"

"Toby, can we not -- "

"I should probably warn you that I'm not feeling very respectful."

"I could actually tell that for myself."

"Excellent."

Josh sighs. "Would you like me to go, Toby?"

It's a long moment, made up, Josh thinks, of memories. The long blur of time they spent together, now irrevocably gone, or at least changed into something new and awful, which doesn't make sense, which Josh fears never will again. Toby's eyes are as ever dark and unreadable, full of secrets Josh was never privy to, even when they were what he thought of as friends. And he remembers all the times he was fleetingly, irrationally, jealous of CJ or Sam or Andrea and the parts of Toby they all held in their hands, tenderly, trusted, in a way Josh never was. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and waits for his dismissal.

It doesn't come.

"No, I wouldn't," he says, his voice soft, sounding surprised. Josh opens his eyes, knowing how he feels.

"Huh?" he says, before he can reconsider it.

"I know what you mean."

"I can ... I mean ... I'll leave if you want -- "

"Don't."

His face is sober, serious. He almost looks as though, if it was anyone else, he would reach out and take hold of the body standing in front of him, because any comfort is better than none. And that, Josh thinks to himself, is as clear a reminder as any of where you stand in the line-up.

Josh nods, aware that it gives him an excuse to drop his eyes from Toby's, which is the one thing he is most anxious to do right now, to stop that stare burning any further into his heart.

"Okay."

"Okay."

It's awkward. It's more than awkward. They sit on Toby's couch and make sure that their thighs don't touch, not speaking, sipping beer that Josh can't taste and which he's pretty sure that Toby doesn't like, even though it's the only kind he seems to have in his refrigerator, feeling the night and their own silence close in around them, impossible to break, neither of them wanting to leave and neither of them wanting to stay.

It is not altogether surprising that it's Josh who reaches out: as simple as his hand on Toby's thigh - confession and request, hidden in a promise never to tell, never to let it grow past this one impossible night, if only he can have tonight. But it's more than a surprise when Toby turns his head and his hands, and holds Josh's face so gently between his palms and presses his own lips against the opening gasp that Josh's make as he is caught there, pinned in place; just where Toby seems to want him. In that moment Josh hardly remembers that he wanted it himself, much much more, if only at the back of his mind.

Toby is heavy on top of him, pushing him down to the couch so that his hair catches painfully against the cushions and his neck cricks in what feels like at least three different places at once. Their legs tangle uncomfortably until Josh raises his left onto Toby's shoulder, finally really thankful for those long-gone sessions at the White House gym, but not as thankful as he is for Toby's fingers reaching for his zipper and how gentle his hands still are as they lower his leg and pull his pants down past his hips and his knees, throwing Josh's clothes to the floor but not his own, leaving Josh unable to look away from Toby's hands reaching for his own zipper, fumbling with button and belt, until he is stroking his erection in his hands and looking into Josh's eyes with an expression which dares him to be afraid _now_, when this is what he was asking for, all along.

Josh isn't afraid.

He raises his left leg over Toby's shoulder again and loops the other around his hip, as if to say: don't you dare go anywhere; you said yes; you said you would. He might as well admit with his body what he will never be able to make into actual words: I think that I need you, and even though this wasn't what I was expecting, I still want you, now.

It's not a smile that moves Toby's mouth - it's not open enough to be called a smile. But it is an admission, an acquiescence, if slightly mocking, that Josh isn't entirely alone; that Toby wants him too. Josh's heart starts beating a heavy, difficult rhythm, which sounds guilty and elated all at once, thinking about kids and girlfriends and Presidents and pardons and brothers and punches and betrayals, still very close. They all still hurt. So does this.

Toby's mouth goes straight to Josh's throat, sucking on ill-shaven stubble and the pulse beating there, leaving bite-marks which will sting in the morning. He doesn't care what explanations Josh will have to make for them, or only in as far as he gets pleasure from forcing Josh to make them at all. He leaves these vicious kisses all the way down Josh's chest, pushing away the fabric of his shirt and the drift of his tie as he goes, because he must like the way Josh looks naked from the waist down, which is mostly ridiculous, Josh thinks, but not _only_ ridiculous, if the blackness of Toby's eyes are anything to go by.

His left hand takes hold of Josh's cock without much warning, grasping it tightly, squeezing without much mercy accorded to the half-pained, half-ecstatic breaths escaping from Josh's throat, touching him like an expert. Josh comes helplessly, spilling out into Toby's hand in long, white threads which loop over his fingers, which almost cover the place his ring used to be. Josh closes his eyes tightly, fighting the memory and the slip down from perfect ecstasy, pushing towards Toby's body, hoping it's not over, not yet.

It isn't.

Ejaculate, it turns out, is not much of a lubricant, and there is pain as Toby enters him, pulling him up on his hips, just a little, for an angle which is difficult, but worth it. Toby halts, pressed deep into him, for a series of moments which feel longer and don't hurt after the first few, once Josh has caught hold of the memory of his own orgasm and pushed it to the front of his mind, filled his body with it and the warmth of Toby's hands, now stroking his thighs, and Toby's mouth kissing his own, being so gentle now that Josh could almost believe that it's over, that they're _okay_ again; friends again.

Toby starts thrusting before Josh is ready for it. He is still high on his own climax, and on his memories, and his head is filled with blood and when he opens his eyes all he can see at first is blackness. Then as he blinks and blinks, Toby's face. And then he almost wishes he had kept his eyes closed.

He looks like a man in pain, broken, still learning how to put himself back together. Less lost in pleasure than in the knowledge that pleasure always ends. His little sighs as he pounds against Josh's body are painful, impossible to watch. But Josh keeps his eyes open, because he feels like he owes Toby that much; owes his friend.

Toby comes, hard, with his eyes tight shut and his mouth blood-red, open in a moan that twists in Josh's belly.

Josh raises his hand to Toby's face, holds his palm against Toby's cheek, like a lover would who is sure he is loved. Toby's eyes squeeze tighter shut and his breath stutters and suddenly Josh is afraid he will cry, though he knows that Toby would still rather die, even now.

As Toby's climax passes away and he falls back against the arm of the couch, eyes still closed, Josh, wincing a little, moves towards him. Josh kisses him, softly, hoping it is enough, somehow. Enough to say _thank you_ and _I'm sorry_ and the other thing; the three words which will never pass between them, now or ever, because it's just not who they are together. No room for love in the middle of this battle.

Josh kisses him, and strokes his trembling fingers into Toby's beard. And Toby manages a smile, a real one. And maybe, _maybe_, it will be okay.


End file.
